The Blacksmith’s Bravery by Susan Page Davis

hard then, and it cost a pretty penny to keep the line running.”
    â€œMr. Bane told me it cost a lot more then to ride the line.”
    â€œSure it did. But most people were afraid to ride anyway, at least on certain parts. If it hadn’t been for the mail contracts, the stagecoach companies would have folded.”
    Vashti clung tightly to her shotgun and the edge of the seat as they took a curve.
    â€œSo what was the worst scrape you were in?”
    Bill spat over the side. “About twenty Injuns come after me. Old Ben Liddel was sittin’ where you are. He pumped the lead, I’m telling you.”
    â€œHow’d you get away? Outrun ’em?”
    â€œNope. A team of horses hitched to a coach can’t outrun their horses. Mules even less likely. No, we drove into a piece of road between some rocks and stood ’em off for three hours. We weren’t far out from Julesburg. Finally, half a dozen men came riding out to see what had happened to us. They ran the Injuns off. Good thing, because Ben and me were about out of lead.”
    Vashti eyed him for a long moment. “You telling it straight?” “I sure am.”
    â€œDid you have any passengers?”
    â€œNot that day. Had five sacks of mail, though. And we got it through, yes sirree. ’Course, I took a bullet in my hand.”
    Vashti stared down at his tanned, leathery hands. “Which one?”
    â€œThat one. The right.”
    â€œDid it heal up good as new?”
    â€œPretty good. Still bothers me some, especially in cold weather or when it’s going to rain. But I was mighty glad they didn’t hit me in a worse place.”
    The wheels hit a rut, and Vashti lurched forward, nearly flying over the footboard.
    â€œHold on, there, Georgie!” Bill grabbed the back of her vest and yanked her back up onto the seat.
    Vashti gasped and looked up into his placid blue eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
    â€œDon’t need no ‘sir.’ I’m just Bill.”
    â€œThank you kindly, Bill.”
    He nodded. “So, you want to drive.”
    â€œI do. I surely do.” For a split second, she thought he might offer to let her take the reins.
    Bill spit a stream of tobacco juice off into the brush. “What’d you ever drive before?”
    â€œMy daddy’s horses.”
    â€œHow long ago?”
    She couldn’t hold his gaze. “Awhile.”
    â€œLike ten years or more?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œHmm.” They were approaching a steep incline. Bill let out a little rein and called to the mules, “Hup now. Step along, boys.”
    Vashti held on and kept quiet. When they got to the top of the rise, the road leveled out for a short stretch.
    â€œDriving a farm wagon h’ain’t like driving a stage,” Bill said.
    â€œNo, sir, I expect you’re right. My daddy had a carriage and four.”
    Bill’s eyes narrowed, and he shot her a sidelong glance. “That true?”
    â€œWell… the team of four is.”
    â€œHa.”
    â€œJohnny Conway said when he was a nipper, somebody made him a rig to practice driving on.”
    â€œThat’s a passable way to learn. At first. If you can’t learn on real horses.”
    â€œWell, I don’t see how I can learn on real horses when I don’t have any of my own and Mr. Bane won’t let me drive his.”
    â€œHmm.”
    Vashti watched him cautiously for a bit then cleared her throat. “Would you make me a rig, Bill? I’ve got a place to put it.”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œYes, sir. I mean Bill.”
    He pursed his lips and, after a moment, shot more tobacco juice over the side. “I’ll think on it.”
    They rode along for another hour without much talk. Vashti stared out over the valley below them and across at the distant peaks and rock formations. Some of the stone columns had fanciful shapes. She imagined one group as a